


The Last Free Skate

by Yuki Seki (Myriai)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Victor Nikiforov PoV, after the sochi grand prix, chances are they're going to wind up in bed together at some point, more tags when I'm not using my cell phone hot spot to post, victor's grand finale, yet another take on victor's PoV through the series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 12:45:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13295175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myriai/pseuds/Yuki%20Seki
Summary: Viktor considered himself a likable person.  He got along well with most of his competitors and they’d been known to let loose and have fun together every now and then when breaks allowed.  Had he done something inadvertently—besides asking him if he wanted a commemorative picture like he would any regular fan—to make Yuuri Katsuki hate him?





	The Last Free Skate

**Author's Note:**

> Yep another take on Viktor throughout the anime and beyond. 
> 
> I just want to toss my take into the ring as well.
> 
> Any resemblance to another's fic along the same lines is completely coincidental. 
> 
> I rang in 2018 watching Yuri on Ice and decided it was time to let this fic start to see the light of day. I started it over a year ago and have been chipping away at it a little at a time.

**Sochi Grand Prix**

He _hurt_.

Not that anyone would be able to tell in Viktor Nikiforov’s easy glide onto the ice to make his appearance on the podium.  The program for “Stay with Me” was one of his most complicated and technically difficult and he paid for it after every performance.  However, like most devoted athletes, Viktor had long gotten used to hiding the pain and keeping on, no matter how loud his joints protested their rough usage.  He smiled and waved, winking at his fans, and carried on as he always did.  When the camera flashes faded and the interviews were over, he started talking to his young rinkmate, Yuri Plisetsky, about his free skate, using the conversation to shove his discomfort to the back of his mind.  As expected, Yuri more or less told him to fuck off and Viktor carefully hid his amusement while Yakov started lecturing the blond boy.

His eyes were accosted by a young man in glasses wearing a blue coat and dragging a bag behind him.  Next to him, was the Japanese figure skating commentator that Viktor couldn’t recall the name of.  For a moment, blue eyes met brown and faint color appeared on the young man’s cheeks—he was Asian, possibly Japanese, at least that’s what Viktor figured—and Viktor smiled.  “Do you want a commemorative photo?” he asked.

The young man stiffened and immediately turned his back on him, something that usually didn’t happen to Viktor Nikiforov.  As he walked away Viktor got a glimpse of his badge and realized that he’d just suggested a picture to one of his fellow ice skaters, but he couldn’t quite place him.  Viktor cocked his head and watched the young man depart then turned to hear Yakov’s lecture winding down.  “Who was that?” he asked.

“Who was what?” Yakov asked.

Viktor nodded to the figure slipping out the door with Celestino Cialdini hurrying after him.  Yakov watched them for a moment.  “Yuuri Katsuki,” the coach finally replied, “from Japan.”

Viktor frowned trying to place the name amongst the competitors and a flash of blue moved in the corner of his eye and he realized that the young man was the skater in blue who missed almost every jump in the competition.

“Viktor, are you coming?”

One of the other Russian skater’s voices drew his attention to the fact they were leaving and he smiled amiably.  “Of course,” he said.

Yakov fell into step beside him as they stepped out into the cold December air.  “Don’t forget the banquet is tomorrow,” he said.  “You’ll be obligated to put in an appearance.”

“Of course,” Viktor said cheerfully.  “The banquets are always fun.”

Actually they weren’t, not really.  They tended to be long, boring affairs that he had to play nice for and chat up his sponsors and other supporters from throughout the first part of the season.  He would only have a short rest after the Grand Prix before it was the Russian Nationals and beyond.  They climbed into the van that the Russian team rented and headed back to the hotel, but Viktor tuned out most of the chatter, responding with a smile and things he couldn’t recall when it seemed they were wanting a response from him.  His mind wasn’t on his teammates, it was on his hotel room—one he didn’t have to share with anyone—the over-the-counter medication that mostly took the edge off the screaming of his joints and a nice, warm bed where he could idly flip through the social media networks while he relaxed.

Viktor waved to his teammates as he made his way to the elevator, getting stopped here and there by fans for pictures and a reporter or two for a ‘few more quick questions’.  He finally managed to duck into an elevator to elude the rest of the newshounds and leaned against the mirrored wall and closed his eyes, allowing the sheer exhaustion he felt to show for just a moment before the elevator stopped to let a couple more people on as it ascended to the proper floor.  Thankfully, the guests that joined him didn’t seem to recognize him and the rest of the trip up was made in silence broken only by the faint music coming from the elevator speakers.

He exited his floor with a smile and a wave at the other guests and made a bee line for his room, slipping the card key in and watching it flash green before he entered.  He’d left the heater on full blast when he headed for the competition so that he wouldn’t have to wait for it to warm up when he came back.  The bag he toted that carried his skates and various other implements of his profession was set carefully inside the closet and he extracted the bottle of Aleve from its hidden resting place and availed himself of three pills and the entire bottle of ‘complimentary’ water that sat on the bedside table.  The rest of his clothes made a trail across the floor as he headed for the shower.  He flipped the shower onto the hottest setting and paused for a moment to stare at his reflection in the mirror before the steam from the shower clouded it up.

Staring out of the mirror at him was the man he never let any of his teammates or even his coach see.  The man in the mirror felt every single one of his twenty-seven years and he could see the end of his competitive figure skating career looming like a shadow on the horizon.  His hand went to his silver hair and ran through it, reassuring himself that it wasn’t thinning the way he feared it was and then checking his appearance and seeing the faintest of lines starting to form at the corners of his eyes.  The mirror steamed over and Viktor shoved away from the sink and turned, stepping into the hot shower and closing his eyes as the comforting warmth washed over him.  The man in the mirror that had been hidden by the fog had no idea what the hell he was going to do with himself once his time on the ice was up and that shook him to the core.

It was probably an hour or so later when Viktor finally emerged from the shower, the water had gone cold stiffening his joints just a little bit and he wrapped himself in the massive robe that he brought with him to every competition.  The robe was one of the first things he’d bought himself once he’d scored enough sponsorship to not have to worry about how much money he had put aside for maintenance on his ice skates, costuming, and various classes he took to maintain his edge on the ice as well as the normal slew of bills everyone had to deal with.  The material was dark and soft and wrapped Viktor in a feeling that was probably the closest thing to contentment he found when he was away from his own home and his beloved poodle, Makkachin.

He ordered room service and settled on the made-up bed to wait, pulling out his phone and scrolling through his feeds.  He didn’t actually particularly care what the others were doing tonight, he’d hear all about it tomorrow, but as he scrolled through he realized that Yuuri Katsuki didn’t show up on any of his feeds.  Searching his name brought up images from an account labeled sukeota3sisters or the account of the Thai Skater, Phichit Chulanont, but nothing directly posted from the young man himself.  A further search showed that there was absolutely no hint of personal social media accounts for him and Viktor frowned a bit.  Who, in this day and age, didn’t have some form of social media presence?

The oddity sparked Viktor’s curiosity a little more and he did another internet search, digging up various videos on YouTube that showed Yuuri Katsuki’s performances.  Viktor was midway through watching one of Yuuri’s previous performances that netted him a spot in the Grand Prix Final when a knock echoed with the announcement of room service.  He got up and went to get the food, glad that the medication had taken effect and it didn’t feel like every move was punctuated with a scream.  He settled at the table in front of the window with his dinner and finished watching the performance and the stream automatically began a video of one of Viktor’s own performances afterwards. 

Viktor exited out of the videos and ate his food, letting his mind dwell for the moment on the other skater.  Here and there in Yuuri’s performances he saw flashes of brilliance that showed Viktor how Yuuri made it to the Grand Prix Finals—it was no small feat to be included amongst the six best skaters in the world to make the GPF—but no answers as to why he self-destructed when it counted most or why he seemed to hold so much dislike for Viktor himself.

Viktor considered himself a likable person.  He got along well with most of his competitors and they’d been known to let loose and have fun together every now and then when breaks allowed.  Had he done something inadvertently—besides asking him if he wanted a commemorative picture like he would any regular fan—to make the other skater hate him?  Viktor finished his food and poured himself a generous measure of vodka and sipped it.

Maybe he would see if he could talk to Yuuri Katsuki at the banquet tomorrow night and find out why.

He finished his drink and plugged his phone into the charger before heading to bed.

The next evening, Viktor slipped into one of his many suits and took another couple Aleve before he headed out the door to meet up with Yakov and the others to go to the banquet.  The day had been a flurry of questions over what he was planning to do for the future and if the rumors of retirement were true, but with his usual silver-tongue Viktor gave the media a series of non-answers that seemed to satisfy them before he moved on.

As Viktor figured, the banquet itself was dull and his search for Yuuri Katsuki proved unsuccessful. Surely the other skater couldn’t just _vanish_ amidst the crowd, could he? 

There was a stir at the door and Viktor turned to see Coach Cialdini basically forcing a bespectacled young man in a suit that had seen better days through the door.  The way Yuuri Katsuki’s feet dragged over the carpet, it was easy to tell that the reason they were late was probably because the Cialdini had to force him into it.  There were a few attempted awkward conversations, but before Viktor could attempt to start a conversation with Yuuri himself, his attention was caught by a couple of his other fellow skaters and he forgot about the Japanese skater for the moment. 

The next he noticed the other skater, Yuuri was swaying as he walked away from a table with several empty champagne flutes.  His tie was tucked in his pocket and he seemed to focus on Yuri who hadn’t really left Viktor’s side all night because he and Yakov were afraid of what scene the young man might cause.  What happened next would completely throw everything Viktor thought he knew about himself and his life out the window.

Yuuri challenged Yuri to a dance off and the volatile young skater immediately accepted the challenge and so the dance offs began.  Viktor watched at first, uncertain of if he even wanted to get involved, but eventually got pulled in.  He saw Chris challenge Yuuri to a poledance and watched in shock as the dark-haired skater, despite the slight chub that Viktor could see, completely nailed a routine and forced even Chris to eventually admit his defeat. 

Viktor lost track a bit of what happened after the challenge up until the point Yuuri, who’d somehow managed to get his dress shirt on and tied his tie around his head like Viktor had seen in random pictures from Japan, approached.  He then found himself neatly challenged by Yuuri Katsuki and was flabbergasted when Yuuri managed to slur. “If I win this battle, will you become my coach?  Be my coach Viktor!”

Viktor ended up having the most fun he’d ever had at a banquet since he rose to the top as he danced with the younger Japanese skater.   By the end of the night, he was breathless with laughter and absolutely captivated by Yuuri.  It was only after Cialdini escorted the very drunk, very happy Japanese ice skater out of the banquet hall that he realized, he never asked Yuuri Katsuki why he hated him—though it was very obvious that perhaps it wasn’t hate that Yuuri felt.

He dashed to the door to try and catch the skater, but by the time he fought his way through the crowd to the door, the coach and his skater had vanished and he wasn’t sure what floor the Japanese skater was on.  Quietly he resolved to find Yuuri Katsuki the next morning and have a conversation with him about why he thought Viktor would be a good coach and what his real feelings were.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.
> 
> I know I have a lot of ongoing fan fictions going on--they're all going to get finished a bit at a time. I've never been able to fully focus on just one story at a time.


End file.
